


Down The Hourglass

by SummerJay



Series: Deep Waters [1]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Graphic Depictions of Feelings, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Intentions, but way less comfort than there should've been, one moment of smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:33:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24882364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SummerJay/pseuds/SummerJay
Summary: It’s only been twenty minutes since he fetched the bottle. Perhaps a whole half an hour since he stumbled into the betting shop, suddenly terrified of the idea of sinking into that cold lonely bed and taking another stand against the shovels. He can’t do this shit tonight. It feels like they’re already waiting for him by the door, waiting to time the collapse exactly with his arrival.This is it. They’ve finally chased him out of his fucking house.Tommy snickers. Then laughs. Then raises a glass to his new lowest.In which Tommy is terrified of help, and Alfie acts on a whim.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Series: Deep Waters [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1801282
Comments: 16
Kudos: 137





	Down The Hourglass

**Author's Note:**

> In case you skipped the tags, there will be a lot of explicit and unaddressed feelings about trauma, depression and other dark stuff. Take care and stay safe!

Tommy thrashes in his sleep. He knows that. Hard to stay oblivious, with the way the sheets are always crumpled when he wakes up, sweat-soaked pillow slumped in the corner of the bed and the blanket tangled around his legs. It’s the damn blanket sometimes, twisting around him where he can’t see, can’t comprehend in the panicked moment of twitching himself back to reality.

Sometimes it’s just the fucking sheet. A touch he’s not supposed to be aware of, but he always, painfully notices.

Those things are familiar by now. They don’t make his heart beat any slower, but he knows them.

Throw the blanket off in seconds. Breathe. Breathe deep, and hard, and purposeful, let it happen, then deal with it. That’s the tactic. The reflex. Tommy’s designed it through necessity years ago, and it faithfully keeps him more or less sane on those bad nights, when there is nothing tangible to remind himself that he’s not out there anymore, not buried in one deep grave with a still breathing enemy.

It’s a good scheme.

But it doesn’t work on hands.

Hands cause sheer fucking terror that grips Tommy’s throat like a lonely bouquet of roses tied with a black band, appearing on the dinner table one day. It’s pure dread. Choking. Paralyzing. He can’t wrench himself out of it no matter how fast he gets away from the touch, how well he remembers these hands.

Alfie doesn’t understand a thing when it happens the first few times, reaching out for Tommy, grasping at his raw burning skin instead of letting go, shushing in that low soft voice Tommy has never imagined to be genuine.

Tommy flees these times.

Stumbles out of the bedroom and crashes onto the bathroom floor, lights on, flickering his lighter with shaking hands and staring into the screaming brightness through the pain in his eyes until they adjust. And when it happens, he can see again. And, in a while, he can breathe again. And then, sometimes, he can stand up.

It feels like dying, every single time, no matter how many nights and alarmed gazes have marked the same loop before. Tommy knows, logically, he will breathe, and he will stand up. But in the moment, he never believes it.

Alfie follows him all these times, of course. Tommy then realizes anew how rapidly the whole thing flies by, just fast enough for him to get through the worst of it while Alfie’s busy shaking himself awake and rushing to the bathroom door, or to the couch downstairs, or wherever Tommy lands himself afterwards.

Except for that one time when Alfie comes too soon.

He tries to scoop Tommy into his arms and comfort him, but all Tommy’s flaring mind can see is hands reaching out to shove the dirt deeper into his throat. He lashes out, on pure instinct. The punch strikes Alfie on the forearm, and it’s enough to make him freeze in place, keep him away, _keep all of them away-_

If Tommy could hear anything apart from the muffled shrill tearing at his head that moment, he’d get baffled at the tone Alfie used to say his name.

“‘s okay Tommy, you’re home, that’s alright love, deep breath,” Alfie repeats later, endless minutes later, when Tommy’s finally present enough to comprehend what he’s just done.

His throat fills with disgust instead of terror this time, and he’s forced to stay silent, trying desperately to swallow around it, get at least some piece of apology out, a justification. For being such a fucking mess. For hurting the only person who has no business sticking around but keeps following him into this madness every other night.

For allowing Alfie to witness this, as if Tommy’s finally lost all remaining dignity. 

“You doin’ it, there you go. Good lad.” Alfie keeps rambling from his place by the bathtub, not trying to approach Tommy anymore.

His eyes are warm and steady, but Tommy catches something else in his jagged state of razor-sharp focus. He almost can’t place it for a moment—the emotion is too alien coming from Alfie, it’s not something he’s ever let on in front of Tommy.

Alfie sounds scared.

Tommy presses his entire palm onto the cold damp floor, letting it ground him, and chuckles, noting how the creases on Alfie’s brow etch a little deeper at the sudden mirth.

 _Finally_. Took so fucking longer for Alfie than for other people. Probably cause he’s insane as he is. But now he’s right there with all the others, finally scared of Tommy Shelby and his broken head.

It breaks him out completely, that realization, quenching the raging fire, leaving him hollow and numb to the world. Tommy finds he can hear the silence again. He blinks slowly, willing the still lingering smile off his lips, and takes the first deep breath in all of eternity.

He says something then, battling through the dryness in his throat. Fuck knows why, but his brain doesn’t need his active participation to construct bullshit reassurances, perhaps because he’s long since learned what people want to hear. Alfie doesn’t care about him, after all. He cares for his participation in the altruistic act of trying to put Tommy back together after such episodes. So Tommy tells him something along these lines, thanks him for not leaving him alone.

Judging by the look on Alfie’s face, Tommy misses, for the first time in his life. But whatever he says is enough for Alfie to let him pick himself up and fuck off to the couch.

Tommy doesn’t remember much of that night clearly, at least the frantic, fear-laced part of it.

But he remembers Alfie’s face. At the instinctive punch. At the firmly spoken calming ramble. The vision of that face doesn’t dissipate with the smoke Tommy enwraps himself in when he gets downstairs.

Alfie Solomons got scared.

Long fucking overdue.

“You’ll set fire to the fucking house at this rate, mate.” Alfie sinks into the chair—not the couch—and yawns, rubbing his neck. Of course he fucking followed. “Use the bloody ashtray, will ya.”

Tommy glances at the cigarette in his hand, confused. It’s fizzling away over a tiny pile of scattered ash on the floor, few tiny surviving embers still hot and red. He almost crushes them with his boot before remembering he’s not wearing any.

Alfie gets up then, his eyes carefully casual, and hands Tommy the ashtray, still avoiding touch.

Tommy snaps at that, “It’s not fucking contagious you know.”

Alfie merely raises his eyebrows.

“Is that right? Cause I, right, I wouldn’t wanna catch that…” he gestures vaguely at Tommy’s whole person, “whatever the fuck that is, mate, yeah, that’s bloody hazardous. Are you sure it doesn’t… bead on your skin? Like in those fucking frogs, you know. Poisonous little fuckers, you touch them just wi’h your finger, right, and then you have to chop your fucking arm off immediately. To stop it spreading before it reaches your heart. Entire fucking arm-”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” he tries for brisk, but the anger simmers down too quickly, leaving Tommy suddenly bare and so fucking tired.

“Are you?”

Tommy nods, a huff ripping out of his chest, probably a bit hysterical. “Yeah.”

“Alright then.”

Alfie shuffles too long before settling on the couch and stretching his legs out with an exaggerated groan, giving Tommy time to protest or move away if he doesn’t want contact. Tommy rubs his eyes. Wants to gouge them out really. Fuck, he still can’t contain a small twitch when Alfie drapes his large warm arm over Tommy’s shoulders. As if his nerves have been pulled out of his body and stretched all over his skin. He can only bite hard on the inside of his cheek against it.

_What a fucking mess, Shelby, pull yourself together for once in your goddamn life._

It stings, this weakness. On any other night, it would sting worse than the adrenaline flooding his veins. But now it stings so much worse to still see that fucking expression in Alfie’s eyes when Tommy, completely overcome with dread, pushed him away.

Tommy wills himself to relax into the embrace, inhales the smoke. He needs to think. He needs to let Alfie believe it’s better, then he can piss him off into going to bed alone, and then, perhaps, in the remaining hours until the sunlight mercilessly marks the beginning of another day, Tommy can figure out what to do with these bloodied shards of his life.

Alfie curls his fingers after a minute, brushing against Tommy’s skin, testing the waters. When Tommy doesn’t flinch, he folds one leg under himself, gets comfortable and starts moving his fingers thoughtlessly across Tommy’s skin, tracing gentle patterns and steadily quelling the trembling with his firm lulling presence. When Tommy starts shivering and can’t suppress it in time, Alfie pulls away just for a moment and covers Tommy’s shoulders with a thin, ridiculously green blanket.

“Meant to throw it away,” Alfie mutters, moving his touches to Tommy’s neck not to dislodge the cloth. “Ugly fucking thing.” He yaws again, pulling Tommy closer, and Tommy grits his teeth against the unnatural desire to lean away. “‘s not like they didn’t know ‘t was going to be uglier than the ninth bloody circle of hell, right, they saw how obnoxious it looked when they started stitching it, they did, and they produced it regardless. Fucking greed, mate, ‘s what I tell you.”

Alfie carries his rambling over into another nonsensical tale about money-hungry cloth-makers, seemingly oblivious to how Tommy never fully stops shaking under his hands.

Tommy listens and hates himself more than his clenched teeth can contain.

He doesn’t set foot in Alfie’s house for a few weeks after that night. There’s no reason for them to meet, with the business being oiled enough by now to roll without their active intervention. But when, inevitably, a solid opportunity does come up, Tommy gathers his clothes and forces himself to leave as soon as Alfie starts drifting off into that fuzzy post-coital space.

It’s the way it should be, Tommy reminds himself, starting the car. There is no chance in hell he will fall asleep beside Alfie again, and he certainly doesn’t need the drama of Solomons’s trying to dig out the reason for his unusual at this point departure into the night. Not that Alfie’s ever done that. But he would. He’d fold his arms over his chest and try to flaunt the absurdity of Tommy’s ideas right at him, trying to get him to stop, to stay.

He would, wouldn’t he?

Tommy suddenly can’t help but wonder, and he lights a cigarette just to prolong his legitimate stay, sliding the car window down.

All the times he’s been weak enough to allow Alfie to see how… this thing gets. All the times Alfie’s spent shushing him fruitlessly on the couch, groggy from his sudden awakening but never, for some reason, completely indifferent or genuinely annoyed at Tommy’s ruining his rest. And all the times he’s hummed appreciatively when Tommy laid motionless in his arms, inhaling his cigarettes, not participating in this comforting campaign but never actively resisting it either.

For that, Tommy will hold a separate conversation with himself. Over a bottle of whiskey and probably his pipe, tucked safely away in the drawer by his bed.

But Alfie would, Tommy thinks, taking off slowly and glancing up into the mirror when Alfie’s bedroom window upstairs goes alight on his periphery.

He’s driving slow and steady, taking deep drags on his cigarette. Watching the bright blob in the corner of his eye and feeling it burn a pesky fluttering hole in his stomach. It feels awfully like anticipation. But Tommy doesn’t care to dwell on it.

The straight road ends eventually, and Tommy’s about to take the first turn, reassured in his decision, when the light goes out just in time for him to notice, leaving the house cold and silent in the distance.

The smoke tastes bitter. Tommy swallows dryly and throws the cigarette out the window without finishing it before bringing his foot down so hard it jerks the car forward.

Perhaps, Alfie wouldn’t, after all.

. . .

There are few things that Tommy considers pathetic when it comes to other people’s actions, not after what he’s been through. But wanting Alfie Solomons to rush after him after a casual fuck in the middle of the night is too high up on the list to ignore.

Not _wanting_ , Tommy keeps correcting himself throughout the night, _expecting_.

It’s not a good one—when is it?—but it’s short. It’s a small mercy. Tommy forces himself to stay in bed, because having no sleep at all for too long is detrimental to business, but it’s no use. The shovels start eating away at the wall as soon as Tommy’s head lands heavily onto the pillow.

He never hears them when he stays with Alfie. There are nightmares, fucked up even more because a lot of those times it’s Alfie’s presence that causes them, but the shovels stay buried. And Tommy will always prefer the terror of waking up in cold sweat to this slow, dripping, stale clinking. He can’t stand it. Can’t fucking deal with it. Nothing is ever enough to deal with it.

That’s where comfort gets you, a small voice in Tommy’s head remarks as listlessly as all sound around him is. It makes you forget.

Tommy sits on the bed, presses his back flush against the wall and reaches for his cigarettes on the nightstand. He’d prefer the pipe. But he has a meeting in the morning, and as much as he’s sure in his tolerance, he never trusts himself with drugs when he knows he will need his wits about him the following day.

Alfie seems to replace several whiffs of opium effectively, at least when he gets Tommy exhausted enough before sagging in bed beside him. Tommy’s head always fills with soft emptiness when his fingers start rubbing small circles into his temples absently, until Alfie’s hand goes slack, and his whole presence loses its menacing tint.

It’s funny how the storm of Tommy’s thoughts keeps cycling back to Alfie fucking Solomons tonight.

Tommy flickers the lighter on and off. Bores his eyes into the patterned wall. Listens with a hitch in his breath to the shovels getting louder, getting closer. Never looks away from the slightly quivering point on the wallpaper where the plaster underneath seems to be slowly peeling away.

When Tommy was a kid, there was a field bordering the forest that he had to pass through to get lost between the trees. He was never afraid of the forest, he was at home there, agile and quiet enough to earn its acceptance, but that damn field just sent shivers down his spine. Vast, almost limitless to a child’s imagination, it stretched on and on, grey and foul under his feet. The sky seemed darker there. Even the horses seemed gloomy and distant, approaching him sometimes and staring right past him with empty eyes when Tommy dared to pet them. But the worst thing was right in the middle—a single ragged scarecrow, perched on a short rotting stick, hanging off it like a dead cat on a fence. It always appeared to move around, particularly when the dusk began to settle. Tommy found it first thing every time he strolled into that field, and right until he reached the safety of the lush green branches, he never, not once, took his eyes off it. The scarecrow glared back. But it couldn’t move as long as he was brave enough to stare it down.

Tommy has stared many of his fears down since. But not the shovels. The shovels are receding now, but Tommy knows they will be back tomorrow. And the day after tomorrow. And in another week or two, he will give in to this fixed race like a broken horse he is.

Tommy blinks away from the wall only when the first rays of grey sunlight penetrate the curtains. He gives himself a moment and listens to the quiet chirping of birds unfortunate enough to venture so far into this smoke-drenched town.

Camden crosses his mind one final time before Tommy shoves the night and everything preceding it deep into his consciousness and gets dressed, careful to check for any lingering marks on his exposed throat and wrists.

He didn’t want Alfie to stop him, that’s just not something Tommy is. But he fucking expected him to.

. . .

The nights get progressively worse after that occurrence, to the point of Tommy drinking himself to sleep on the fifth day, when the flowery pattern on the wallpaper starts moving around too convincingly.

He feels dead in the morning. Doesn’t look any better either. But it’s a bit easier to heave himself upright, and it’s all that matters.

It’s a loaded day, starting from the frenzied betting shop and dull paperwork to more aggressive meetings, two of which end in bloodied knuckles. Tommy’s so fucking tired by the end of it he needs to fight his own muscles to climb out the car at Alfie’s bakery.

A week ago, he’d be conflicted about meeting Solomons. He would, at the very least, plan his demeanor ahead.

But now Tommy just scrambles enough energy to respond to Ollie’s usual greeting and focuses on moving his feet in the correct sequence.

It’s one delivery paper to sign. Then he can drive home and collapse. He promises this to himself, like he did back in those fucking trenches, one more effort and then he’s done, he’ll allow himself to be weak and rest, and do whatever he needs to feel whole again. But business must come first.

The bakery is deserted by now, apart from Alfie’s security and the man himself, running his eyes shamelessly over Tommy’s form when he directs his fall into the chair by the table. His calculating stare lingers on Tommy’s mouth while Tommy reads the document, moving from the red scrape under his bottom lip to a small faint bruise on his cheekbone.

“Tommy, what the fuck’s wrong with you?” Alfie suddenly asks so earnestly it makes Tommy tear his eyes away from the numbers.

Alfie’s worrying the ring on his finger, leaning onto his elbows and regarding Tommy from underneath the drawn eyebrows. He’s silent in a way that demands answers.

“It’s a rough business sometimes.” Tommy clears his throat, struggling to keep his voice even, and returns his eyes to the paper. He bets on dismissal to get him out of here faster. “Nothing that won’t fade by tomorrow.”

Alfie’s not satisfied.

“When was the last time you slept, mate?”

Tommy takes his time signing the document and raises his eyes to fix Alfie with an icy gaze. He’s unmoving and seemingly unperturbed. Relaxed even, despite the fidgeting. Tommy presses his lips together at the twinge of anger in his chest, trying and failing to keep his head cool, work around it like a professional he is.

He’s so fucking tired to toe this line.

“You seem preoccupied with my well-being these days, Alfie.” Words start coming out of his mouth, hoarse and cruel, and Tommy delights in the way something in Alfie’s face twitches, clearly not expecting the retort. “Developing some feelings, perhaps? Starting to think maybe that there’s something more in all that fucking. And cuddling. Fucking running after me when it’s none of your business.”

Alfie laces his fingers together, nothing in his posture betraying the warning that’s blaring in his eyes. But Tommy’s too gone to be completely rational. It won’t be Alfie’s place to fucking question him like that.

Tommy pauses, inclining his head before delivering the final mocking blow, “You see, I admire that attachments are unlike you, Alfie. Keep at it. Don’t weaken yourself with them.”

The silence that settles sounds like cracking glass. Alfie sways a little from side to side. There’s a new tension in his usually fluid movements.

Tommy discovers that he suddenly, desperately wants Alfie to say something. To joke, laugh at Tommy’s fucking assumptions and blow them away with a negligent wave of his hand. It occurs to Tommy, in this tunnel between his and Alfie’s eyes, what exactly his half-conscious brain has just spewed out.

But Alfie doesn’t joke.

When Tommy stubbornly refuses to look away, Alfie does it for him. He collects the signed document and puts it away with purposefully slow motions, picking up the record book and putting his half-moon glasses on.

“Fuck off, Tommy,” he says strangely, not gracing Tommy with another glance, and Tommy feels his insides sink. “Long drive to that shithole, innit.”

It’s hurt, Tommy finally figures, when he slams the car door shut and drives away.

He convinces himself it’s good. Better for Alfie to hurt now than make mistakes that will cost them both dearly. Can’t be that important anyway- Tommy’s too broken for anyone to hurt for long. It’s too fucking implausible Alfie, of all people, even started, so it’s all good. It’s good. It’s easier to handle now. Better early. Tommy brings a hand to his mouth, catching the stifled sobs when the car comes to a stop. It’s better this way. It’s good.

At some point, he gives up the attempt to stop sounds escaping, stop tears from rolling—it’s no use, so he clutches the wheel instead and lets it pull him under. Spill out. Everything, every single thing he’s neglected to release for too long. Everything setting his chest on fire.

The moment takes some time to pass.

Tommy hopes, half-heartedly, when he looks out the window that the breakdown caught him on Birmingham’s porch already, but there’s only darkness and a silent field stretching in all directions.

Tommy fishes for that long-forgotten fear inside. Something to trump the pain. But there is nothing. There is nothing inside him.

. . .

He makes the drive, somehow.

At moments like this, Tommy wishes he could blink a part of his life away. Close his eyes just for a second and open them in a different day, a different hour, not necessarily happier but simply distinct from what’s happening right here and now. Anything but another second of this.

But the world is deaf to his desires. And Tommy pours himself another drink, tapping a finger absently over his watch.

It’s only been twenty minutes since he fetched the bottle. Perhaps a whole half an hour since he stumbled into the betting shop, suddenly terrified of the idea of sinking into that cold lonely bed and taking another stand against the shovels. He can’t do this shit tonight. It feels like they’re already waiting for him by the door, waiting to time the collapse exactly with his arrival.

This is it. They’ve finally chased him out of his fucking house.

Tommy snickers. Then laughs. Then raises a glass to his new lowest. There is hardly a problem in the world that enough dedication can’t make worse, but Tommy’s swept with a sense of liberty upon acknowledging this particular rock bottom.

That’s it. That’s finally bad enough.

It’s meditative when he takes his gun out of the holster, cocks it and presses it to his temple. Curious, this position. Almost repulsive. Shameful somehow. Tommy adjusts the barrel to sit snuggly and accurately against the bone and curls his finger around the trigger, slowly, tasting it.

He’s not particularly pressed in time, after all. And he doesn’t need to rush to escape his own fear or steady his hand.

Tommy breathes out, letting his eyes fall closed, and listens to the obliviously frantic beating of his heart, to how softly the clock is ticking in the nightly silence, only disturbed by the distant sound of car wheels rolling on the gravel.

The metal is getting warmer. Tommy can feel its tinge on his tongue. Opens his mouth a little wider, tasting the air. He starts pressing on the trigger gently, just barely noticing the door creaking behind the rush of blood in his ears.

His body’s acting of its own accord, mindlessly desperate to survive, but Tommy feels so at peace this second.

Yes, this. This is how he will go. Not sobbing away at the fucking nightmares.

“Well, fuck me, Tommy, that face’s downright fucking obscene.”

It’s a reflex Tommy has no control over—he jolts upright and snatches the gun from his head like a child snapping his eyes closed after being caught awake just a moment ago. His heart is suddenly in his throat.

Alfie is leaning on the doorframe and peering at him from under his low-sat hat.

“You know, mate, you may be the only poor sod I know, right, who still looks absolutely fuckable with all that-” _puffiness from tears_ “-bruises and whatnot.”

Tommy lowers the gun with a trembling hand and shoots a quick glance to the whiskey bottle, just in case. Not even half-empty. Alfie must be inconveniently fucking real then.

“Fuck off,” he tries. Then, he tries again, “I’m sorry.”

There must be a point when emotions burn your brain out.

Tommy has no idea how words are forming in his mouth. He takes a deep breath and rubs his eyes, leaning back on the chair and wondering if he should start negotiating for Alfie’s silence about what he’s interrupted. Maybe it’s not the right track at all. Hard to disentangle, Tommy feels like his head is swimming.

How long _did_ he go without sleep?

Alfie observes patiently. He doesn’t offer any witty remarks for once. Just stands there in the shadows, warming Tommy with his gaze, silent in a way that reveals nothing about the slap to the face that Tommy used mere hours ago as a goodbye.

That brings him back to the point, the fucking goodbye.

“Why are you here?”

Alfie smiles with a hint of pride. But Tommy, in his current state, can’t vouch for what is real.

“You left your cap behind. And seeing as your gypo head can’t cope without it…” Alfie sifts through his pockets and tosses the hat to Tommy, unaffected when he doesn’t make a move to catch it. “It was like you forgot your gypo fucking head, right, on my desk. So I brought it back to ya. Graciously.” It doesn’t seem to bother Alfie in the slightest how absurd the explanation sounds. He folds his arms on his abdomen with the air of infinite self-assuredness and comes closer to Tommy’s desk. “Now, I believe it’s the moment when you very politely invite me to your bed.”

“I can’t go home,” Tommy hears himself say.

“Can’t, what’s there?”

“The shovels. Behind the wall.”

“The shovels.”

“Yeah.”

Alfie just stands there for a minute.

“Sweetie, if someone comes for you with a shovel tonight, I’m going to fucking impale ‘im on it, yeah? And establish that ungodly construction right outta your front door, see, to spread the message and secure you from further visits.”

He shakes his head at the bitter, uncontrolled smile that creeps onto Tommy’s lips and walks up to the table, bringing both palms down on it and towering over Tommy. “No, no, no, you gotta understand, Tommy, I’m deadly serious, yeah.” It doesn’t help that he’s smiling too now. “I fucking drove here, right, mate. A hundred and twenty miles. In the direction of this complete fucking pisshole of the entire country. And you know, Tommy, right now, yeah, after this little two-fucking-hour drive, I am the only one, right, who’s entitled to murdering your sorry arse tonight. Just so we’re clear on that.”

Tommy wants to punch him so bad. For butchering this perfectly aligned solution. For making him grin at the fucking shovels, of all things.

But Alfie has an upper hand, in all meanings, and a functioning brain, and he kisses Tommy, tilting his head up with steady fingers under his chin, before Tommy can come up with a reply.

It’s a brief press of his lips at first and then a slow insistent movement when Tommy fails to respond. Alfie hates it when Tommy slips into his head when they fuck. He always thrusts harder, kisses deeper, talks dirtier then, set on plucking Tommy out of his world and back into Alfie’s arms, taking every last drop of his undivided attention. It must feel like kissing a marble statue now, but Alfie does the same thing, licking into Tommy’s mouth, bringing the other hand heavily onto his nape. Looking down at Tommy with lidded eyes. He doesn’t close them. It’s embarrassing. Tommy wants to escape, but he’s too drawn to this fervent, intoxicating attention.

He lets Alfie kiss him and looks back into his dark eyes.

“You drove from London,” he says, when Alfie stops, stays pressed to him by forehead and lips.

Alfie replies, matter-of-factly, “I did, yeah.”

Tommy knows he will feel so raw from this tomorrow he’ll try to peel his skin off. It’s terrifying even now. But he’s too close to crashing into complete incoherence to care.

Tommy kisses back. And then, upon an unspoken agreement, Alfie invites himself into Tommy’s bed.

. . .

It’s mysterious that Alfie fits. Tommy contemplates it absently, leaving his eyes closed against the bright afternoon sun. He has his face pressed into Alfie’s broad chest, both of Alfie’s arms wrapped securely around him, and, somehow, they manage to stay on the bed, despite the fact that Alfie alone is probably larger than the fucking bedframe.

It’s not correct, of course. But it feels that way when Alfie loosens his embrace just slightly to begin rubbing lazy circles into Tommy’s back.

Tommy hums at the sensation. Tries to pull his arms tighter around Alfie, but his muscles refuse to cooperate, leaving him weakly flexing his fingers. It feels like he’s filled with fucking jelly. Disgusting. Tommy tries harder just out of spite.

“Easy there, love. Stay there for a second, won’t ya,” Alfie’s voice rumbles deeply, making his chest vibrate.

He rolls fully onto his back, taking even more of Tommy’s weight, and runs his hands down Tommy’s spine, massaging the sore muscles on his lower back, teasing a small sigh out of Tommy when he returns to his neck and works the knots there. They help, these tiny motions. Inflate his body again. Alfie is thorough in his usual manner, kneading every inch of Tommy’s skin, and he keeps his touch firm enough to flood Tommy’s senses, unused to such prolonged contact, and delay the wave of apprehension that’s already building in his head.

Tommy catches himself tracing tiny patterns on Alfie’s chest over the shirt. Trying to feel his strong heartbeat under all that fabric.

Tommy makes sure to turn his head away before he opens his eyes—wants to spare Alfie the fucking sight. Can’t be pretty after last night. After… Tommy stares at the brightly lit wall for a minute, trying to recall what the hell happened after they left the betting shop.

They didn’t fuck, he’s confident about that. There is a vague memory of Alfie unbuttoning his waistcoat. But it seems like after that Tommy’s brain switched off. He can only guess he’s been too fucked for nightmares, considering he’s still in bed now.

Eventually, Alfie’s hand finds its way into Tommy’s hair and onto his brow, strangely comfortable with his own gentleness. Tommy would melt into it if his body could go any laxer. And if he was any less awake.

“How do you feel?” Alfie brings his touch over to Tommy’s face, caressing life back into his starved skin.

Tommy presses a kiss into his collarbone. Then into his neck, leaving a hot wet trail and grazing the skin with his teeth. “I’m fine.”

“Fine,” Alfie huffs, chest heaving under Tommy’s insistent lips. There’s just a slight hitch in his breathing, and Tommy feels himself smile just a little at the sound of it. “That’s grade eloquent, Tommy. Fine my ass.” Alfie actually tries hard to look unimpressed when he tugs at Tommy’s hair, forcing him to bring his face up reluctantly. “You tried to fucking kill yourself yesterday, mate. ‘s not ‘fine’ by any measure. You know, communication-”

He gasps in surprise when Tommy brings a hand down on his cock. Now that’s something. Tommy quirks an eyebrow, keeping his face composed as he begins stroking.

“You were saying?”

Alfie’s not the only one who can be proprietary with his touches. He’s discovering it now, shuffling to spread his legs a little wider and opening his mouth to try again.

“Right, so communication, yeah, it is simply fucking necessary, cause words are un-fucking-reliable, mate-”

Tommy listens to him go on, less steadily now, as he slides down, tugging Alfie’s pants off just enough to bare his hardening shaft. He gives it a few more strokes before ducking his head and licking a wide unabashed stripe up the length.

“Tommy,” Alfie scolds, unconvincingly for how breathless it sounds. “I’m trying to make a point here, yeah.”

Tommy looks up at him. Licks his lips. “Don’t let me stop you.”

Whatever Alfie starts saying transforms into a soft “fuck” when Tommy wraps his mouth around his cock and takes him in slowly, teasingly. He’s only done this once for Alfie, and he wasn’t particularly fond of the experience. Too sloppy, uncomfortable, with Alfie’s office floor dusting his pristine trousers.

But it’s more bearable now. Tommy bobs his head up and down, getting used to the silky sensation of cock sliding against his tongue, to Alfie’s salty taste. Alfie breathes deeply and keeps his fingers in Tommy’s hair, gentle and relaxed. Tommy sinks as deep as his mouth allows him—doesn’t feel like forcing himself down, doesn’t think he can take it now—and starts pumping the rest of the way with his hand, curling his tongue around the hot flesh.

It’s more than bearable.

His cock gives an interested twitch and Tommy sucks Alfie harder, diverting his brain’s attention.

He wants—fucking _needs_ —the normalcy of it. But he’s not inclined to let Alfie return the favour. His body doesn’t feel real enough for it.

It’s a simple transaction. They’re in bed together, and so they fuck. That’s how it’s always been. This is the only thing that can excuse the overwhelming care of sleeping half into the day on Alfie’s chest, and Tommy wants to get it out of the way before he returns to himself enough to inspect it closely. Wants to shield himself from it.

“Tommy-” Alfie tugs at his hair then, forcing Tommy to look up at him first and then slide off his cock. “There is a reason I went after you, you know.”

Tommy lets him swipe a thumb across his cheekbone. “What reason?”

Alfie has the audacity to fucking shrug. “Fuck if I know, Tommy.”

He lays there for a minute, turning to stare at Tommy’s wall, and Tommy stares up at him, hand still wrapped around the base of his flushed throbbing cock. Then, he dives back in and sucks him fast, hollowing his cheeks, pushing the head into the roof of his mouth until Alfie can’t think about a thing anymore, as he grasps at Tommy’s shoulders, repeating the same curses— _eloquently_ —until Tommy straightens, fixes him with a dark gaze through his lashes and finishes him off with fast rough strokes of his hand.

Afterwards, when Tommy’s plastered against Alfie’s side again, languid and still blissfully numb from yesterday’s collapse, letting Alfie run his fingers comfortingly through his hair now that they’re on a more familiar territory, Alfie says something that threatens to shatter the peace.

“You know, you don’t- don’t have to do this, right, Tom? Cause you don’t.”

Tommy snickers. It ruffles Alfie’s beard.

“Yes, I do,” he says, voice still hoarse, without opening his eyes. It’s funny how much easier it is to speak in this fatigued state. Tommy has no idea why he feels so physically drained, but he seizes this opportunity to add, without much thought, “But things change, eh?”

Alfie stills against him for a single breath. Tommy realizes how quiet he’s been all these minutes when Alfie practically booms with words and subtle gestures the next second, insufferable and animated and unreserved in a way Tommy’s never seen him around other people.

He rambles away. Tommy listens. Closes his eyes for a second.

As he’s about to slip into what Tommy promises himself to be just a short nap, while the sun is high and bright, Alfie finally arrives at some conclusion. Tommy fails to extract the context. But he hears, distinctly, how the smile lingers in Alfie’s voice when he draws Tommy closer and affirms that yes, things do indeed have a profound tendency to change.

**Author's Note:**

> All loose ends will be tied in the next installment since—you guessed it—it's a two-shot now. Thanks for reading and stay tuned!
> 
> Optionally, come scream at/with me on tumblr: @summer-jay


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